June 1st, 2018: Final Discharge

Itʼs been a hell of a month for me. It marks the end of one of many of my battles. May, the month of my birth, was supposed to be one filled with celebratory days, and effortless smiles. But sadly, Aprilʼs showers did not bring me any of Mayʼs flowers. The month began with me taking my finals early, a challenge in itself. And after moving out of my dorm, I had spent about a day at home before it was time for my surgery.

I was born with a congenital chest abnormality called: pectus excavatum. Itʼs where your sternum literally sinks into your own chest. My defect was so bad that my heart was displaced to my far left side, I had constant palpitations and a consistently rapid heart rate. My heart and lungs were essentially squished. My exercise tolerance was not very high as you can assume, but even everyday tasks left me out of breath. I had scheduled surgery on May 8th to correct this. This surgery is known to have a painful recovery because they literally lift your sternum up with a retractor, to insert, in my severe case, 2 metal bars, into your chest to hold up your sternum. In this process, your muscles and nerves are stretched out and have to eventually get used to the new structure of your body. I was on narcotics, ibuprofen, muscle relaxers to stop nerve spasms, laxatives and anti-itching medicine to prevent a side effect from the narcotics, among other medicines. Unable to sleep on my side, nights were quite uncomfortable for a while. But within a week, I came home. I walked my laps around the house, went to the restroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth by myself. But, I still needed help with other tasks.

A few days went by, and around May 20th, my birthday, I started to deteriorate. My breathing capacity slowly and secretly decreased over time, until one day, my parents laid me down and I was gasping for air. My parents were going to call 911, but I begged them not to and eventually stabilized. I had my follow-up appointment the next day anyway. But there, it was discovered that the space between my lungs and chest had started to accumulate fluid. Before I knew it, I was admitted again, with an oxygen mask to my face, and an IV catheter taped to my wrist.

It was the mask that was unusually daunting to me. When my numbers started to look bad, the rapid response team came in and switched my nasal cannula to a full oxygen mask. In a few minutes, I was about to be rushed away to yet another surgery. I watched as my parents stared into my eyes, as that was all that was clearly visible anymore. I knew I was 19 now, but all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry. I wanted my parents to tell me that it was going to be okay. Instead, I wiped a slipping tear, looked at them and smiled, raised one of my eyebrows humorously, and told them not to worry.

The doctors gave me the consent forms seconds before they pushed me inside the operating room. My heart rate was through the roof as I messily signed the papers and watched my parentsʼ faces disappear behind the door. My anxiety was at an all-time high; my eyes were constantly moving back and forth, examining every inch of the room. My every sense was amplified. I heard a loud crash as one of the scrub nurses dropped a metal tray. I saw the anesthesiologist whispering to another doctor and felt the nurse push the anesthetic into my IV. Immediately, I felt a burning sensation in my vein, and then the nurse started to scratch my arm to distract me. There was so much going on, and I felt so much in that moment, that I guess it became physically evident. When the nurse noticed my heart rate rapidly increasing, she asked me what I was feeling. I just burst into the tears that I had been holding on to, and cried "I donʼt want to die."

"Donʼt worry, youʼre not going to die," the nurse reassured me as I finally knocked out.

All my memories of the hospital are blurry and choppy. I remember certain, distinct moments, but they are ones that will stay with me forever.

When I first woke up, there was a tube down my throat, and then I was gone again. The next time my eyes opened, I was running a 103-degree fever and hyperventilating uncontrollably. After my first surgery, I woke up to my best friend and my parents. Itʼs a calming feeling to see your loved ones after such a scary experience. But the second time, there were no familiar faces. The ICU was so big that I didnʼt even see my parents watching from a safe distance. I felt completely and utterly alone. My whole body was jumping, and I was gasping for help. I kept having these horribly painful breathing spasms. There were so many things going on at once, I didnʼt even know what was happening to me.

When I finally stabilized, I asked the nurse if she could take me to use the restroom. After my first surgery, I had figured out maneuvers around my setbacks. But now, I had to start all over, from a much further position. The nurse said that she didnʼt want me to get up, in case my respiratory rate was compromised. To avoid getting up, the nurse had me try using a bedpan, a diaper, and even a foley catheter, but nothing worked. My system was so messed up from the narcotics that I had been taking, that I started experiencing urinary tension. Even urinating had become a straining chore. I had to have the nurses wipe me down because both of my hands had IVʼs. It was so humiliating when I had to ask them to wipe again and again. I hated that I was helpless in every possible way and a burden on everyone. I hadnʼt realized it at that first moment, but every small task left me exhausted. I was always tired. After a few days of this, I just fell silent. I didnʼt touch my phone or anything else. I became completely disconnected and disinterested in everything. Every day became the same routine. My parents would feed me my meals, I would use the bedside commode when I needed to, the nurses would give me my medicines, and then I would sleep, or actually stare, at the ceiling. At four in the morning, the x-ray technician would come in with the portable machine, stick the cold metal board behind my back, and record my daily progress. An IV in each hand, high flow oxygen on my face, electrodes all over my chest, pulse oxygen monitor on my finger, and a tube in each side of my chest, each connected to a container that collected my fluids as they drained out.

My first day of physical therapy, they took me on a lap around the floor. Every few steps, Iʼd have a shooting pain down my back. But I stayed quiet and kept walking. But halfway through, I started crying. It was long overdue, and I just couldnʼt stop. I watched as a group of kids in the hall stared at me, as I continued walking with my tear stained face, holding onto the two therapists on my sides. My first stay at the hospital, people visited me every day; it kept me alive in a way. But the second time around, I barely told anyone about my complication. In the ICU, I spent my days and nights alone, with only the company of whichever one of my parents were staying that night.

Whenever I was moved into a regular room, and people visited me, I played it all off by making jokes about my health and my body. But after everyone left, I just sat in my own silence. I had started to walk and sit up again, so eventually, when I was able to use the actual restroom, I would stare at myself in the mirror in disgust. My hair unkempt, face dull and ashen. There was an almost physical element to my depression. I wanted to get out of there so badly, that I went crazy the day of my discharge. I started crying and shouting at my dad on the phone when he didnʼt leave to pick me up as soon as I was medically able to go.

The whole experience took a great toll on me. I spent a long time suppressing the traumatizing memories that I had there. Some days I would shout for someone to help me get up at home, and no one would hear me. And in those moments, I gave up a little bit more.

This is where you make the Life Alert joke in your head.

Despite the humor in this situation, it was horrible to have to depend on someone or other constantly. When I finally became completely able to do everyday things all by myself again, I took my first breath of relief in a very long time. Although I am thankful for everyone who was there for me throughout it all, I pray that Iʼm able to stand tall on my own two feet for as long as humanly possible. I hope to go as long as I can without having to depend on anyone for anything, and that my life is filled with beautifully amazing people to help me get through life's unexpected challenges.

~keep breathing ♥